The Obituary Man
by Absinthe-Abettor
Summary: A short story about the cynicism that now plagues a former Newsie. All of the hopes that he had once held close to his heart are now lost among the materialism and alienation of the 1920s. Will reunion with an old friend reform his spirit, or will he end


THE OBITUARY MAN 

By Absinthe_Abettor

A story about a fallen Idealist 

A/N: All below characters belong to Disney, and not to me. I have merely used them in order to express an idea through fiction. I intend to make no profit off this venture. It is purely for my own amusement. 

This is my first fanfic on FF.net, but certainly not my first fanfiction. I really hope that this little yarn about bitterness and angst makes sense to someone else out there besides myself. The historical details (the few that are in there) are probably not completely accurate and I apologize. Please correct me if I am wrong on any detail, it is appreciated. 

PLEASE REVIEW, if you can, feedback is greatly appreciated as well.

In a smoky, desolate corner of a seedy jazz club, the middle-aged man took a long, bitter drag off his cheap cigarette. The red leather of the new, yet poorly made booth where he was perched seemed to mock his slender, almost skeletal form with its newness as it conformed to its patron. The swirling figures in the near distance defied his disenchanted mood with their dazzling smiles and erotic dance moves. The tassels on the women's dresses bounced with intrigue as they pressed closely on to its wearer's thighs and their partner's suit. Pimps, prostitutes, virgins and heroes slinked along together, new people in the "New Age." 

            It was not to say that the man was there to ruin their bliss or their business, or that he longed to be a part of this seemingly endless era of entertainment. Rather, the arthritis that had begun to set into his rough hands reminded him that he was too old to regain any of their dreams. Through his horn-rimmed glasses he did not see what he wished he could have been. He'd had too much of youth. In 44 years he had seen enough of the ideological, the sweet naivety of youth. And plus. This was the only place that he knew of to get a good stiff drink. 

            He took another sip of his gin and placed his cigarette down on an ashtray, waiting for something rare- a guest. Normally, he would sit there in the dark until he was too disgusted by the music or by the taunting glares of the more arrogant patrons before crawling back to his hole and his typewriter. The retired newspaperman pulled on the fob of an old-fashioned pocket watch- his father's- to check the time. He was late. 

            "Twenty years," he thought. "And some things never change." 

             But for David Jacobs, twenty years had done a lot to his brain. Twenty years of being an eyewitness to war, strife and pain had changed the once brave and optimistic youth into a wrinkled, bitter man. His experiences had left him cynical, hopeless, even. And the 44 year old man who could have been vibrant looked 80, almost ready to die. 

             David was suddenly snapped out of his reverie by the arrival of his companion. 

            "D-Davey?" his face said it all. "Is that really you?" It was almost embarrassing to watch his old friend notice how terrible he looked. There was an uncomfortable silence, and David almost shifted in his chair. 

             "I guess it is, Race." David tried to chuckle to lighten the mood and thrust Racetrack back into the confines of social courtesy.

"Well, uh," the smug Italian, dressed in a sharp, yet well-worn suit, mustered out. "Look at yeh- still a young as ever rascal, eh?" 

            Although to his friend he seemed comatose, this was the most alive that David had been in a long time. He motioned for his guest to take a seat.

             Racetrack, for calling him any other name would not be appropriate, scanned the room with eager eyes. The tantalizing sights of women and the bright lights of the club beckoned to his senses. He could almost never have expected Davey to be in a place like this. Especially now since was was so... well... different. 

            "Have any trouble finding the place?" David broke the ice, seeing that Race was more attracted by the nightlife than his company. 

            "No, not really. Had a bit of a time finding you once I got here though, pal," he tried to be upbeat. "All hulled up in the corner and all."

            "What can I say? It provides a bit of privacy in a place that's all about publicity." 

             Davey's attire certainly did not fit the atmosphere- the faded tan suit and ragged striped tie were pale in comparison to the dancers' bright hues of lime, magenta and orange. His brown shoes were as tattered as his countenance, the whiteness of his sock begging to creep through the soft toe. 

             "Yeah, so 'ah, how ya been doin, Dave? Long time."

            " Day by day, I guess. One after the other- the same, monotonous toil. Watching the same people make the same damn stupid mistakes that they made before." Again, Race's emotions were plain on his face. "Not to try to damper this momentous reunion or anything, it's just the honest truth." 

             "Yeah, I 'ah... Guess I can hear where you're coming from. But what about the newspaper life- ain't that at a fast enough pace for yeh? New stories every day- a changin' 'woild' around ya?" Race tried to emphasize his accent to rouse a chuckle out of David. 

             "Well, that's how it used to be. When I was young and sharp, the muse of the news world was mine for the ravishing- travel, excitement, adrenaline and everyday a thirst for the truth." His eyes half-sparkled. "But a few scoops that didn't please the backers too much, a little too large a dose of the REAL truth. Hmm-" he grunted sarcastically.

            "Then you lose it all. What's the point of having a passion when it becomes someone else's tool for manipulation or propaganda even? I think I just gave up after everyone else gave up on me."

            A buxom waitress was a welcomed break from Davey's cynicism. In those few moments, Race could almost feel the bitter experiences that had wracked him and felt an inconsolable pity for the man. 

             "You always were a sucker for what's right." 

            Silence.

             "So you don't work for the paper anymore?"

            " Unfortunately, something has to pay for this disgusting drinking habit I have." he joked. "Ironically enough I do obituaries."

             "You really are living the exciting life."

            "Tell me about it." He paused, almost remorsefully. "So I'm sure you've heard about Les."

            "Yeah, I heard from Spot who heard from Jack. I'm real, real sorry." 

            "Thanks." David took another long drag off his cigarette. "War is hell. It's not like he was even such a young kid either- twenty-six. But really any age was too young for that kid to be taken away. Part of me's probably with him. Every day, I'd sit by my desk waiting for it to come. Like it was inevitable. Like the goodness of one kid was too great for war not to take somebody like him. Even when it did come, it was still a shock." 

              "I hear ya'. A lot of the guys went out- some never came back."

             "Yeah, fuckin brilliant." 

              Again there was a silence as both men peered out onto the dance floor, observing the fray. Roles became reversed as Davey became more at ease as he drained more alcohol and as Racetrack became more tense at the cynicism flowing from the idealist's mouth. Race almost regretted coming because now the vision that he had in his head for the old strike-leader and friend was marred by the shell of man sitting next to him, barely able to hold himself up. 

            "I'm making you uncomfortable." David said at last.

             "No- not at all. I guess I'm just poor company is it. I've had a pretty long -"

             "It's okay. By now I know that I'm not such an upper anymore. You don't have to pretend that you're having a good time or anything. I just expect some honesty."

              "Ah, Dave, you've always been such a quack, you know that?" 

              The two smiled and took another swing of gin. 

             "And, uh, Jack and Sara? How're those two loveboids?"

            "Great as usual- a gaggle of kids, but Jack never really settles down, you know? Still got a little of that Sante Fe vibe in him, bastard."

            "Good to hear."

             "Not that I see them much, anyways. I think Sara's a bit afraid of me or something. Not that I'd be much of an uncle to them anyhow. Jack tries to keep in touch- but I honestly don't know how happy he is either. This wasn't exactly his plan, you know?"

              "Jack never really struck me as the settlin' down type."

            "Yeah, well. Too late for that I suppose." 

             "Is that the reason why you never got attached?"

             "Ha- don't flatter me, Race. Couldn't really find a girl who could take me for more than 5 minutes without some kind of payment. Too busy for one either. Not until now- when I'm better off alone anyways. Unfortunately, a tortured, bitter artist's life is often solo." 

             A feeble laugh escaped Race's lips. 

             "That was a joke- You can laugh at that one."

             "Oh, yeah." he did. "Ya know, I can see why not getting married can be kinda beneficial- three wives and five kids later I've dug myself a hole I can't get out of. And the money I could be spending at the track-"

             "Same ol' rap, Race."

             " I gots to be spendin on damn formula and shoes and shit. Not to say that I don't love 'em- god bless 'em I do- just a little rough sometimes." 

             "You know who I been thinkin about lately?" Race shrugged. " 'Ol Denton."

            "King of New York that guy...."

             "Yeah and a prince of hearts, too. He got me my first real newspaper job. Even though it's been shit from then on- I owe it all to him."

              Race burst out in laughter. 

             "What?" 

             "Nah, just you owe 'our man Denton' a big pile of shit. It struck me funny."

             "Yeah.... what the hell did we know then?"

             "Sure as a lot more than we do know, probably."

             "We were kids, man. Brave! Valiant! Naive! One fucking break and we're just back right where we started. We WERE shit." 

             "Hey Dave, now, come on. I don't know what's been goin on in your mind, but I remember those days as bein some of the best of my life."

             "A fantasy." 

            "Now I've been listening to you talk a lot of garbage about a lot of stuff, but this is ridiculous. Davey-" he looked him square in the face. "We were a unit. We were together- we took DOWN the giant." 

            "Yeah, well, we got lucky. We were kids- optimistic without knowing why. One lucky break and we get out into the real world and what? Lies? Devastation? An enemy at every corner?" 

            "What are you talking about?"

            "I'm talking about Les, and Jack and you and me and everybody else who thought they were invincible because they had the 'will to do it'. Because they could just 'seize the day.' What good has that done any one of us? Jack's suffering, you're miserable, Les is dead and I'm pretty damn close." 

             "It's like the strike never happened with you."

             "I had such hopes for the world. Such hopes for my LIFE and my goals and a DREAM. But it's the same now as it's always been- it's all about the money, the war, getting on top. Look at Spot Conlon for Christ sakes! He's got the whole alcohol industry under his thumb and is knee deep in God knows what else. That guy was destined to succeed- and maybe he's the only one of US to survive- by exploiting the vices of society. For all the hope wasted- what's even left?"

              "This is just sick, Dave. It really is. Do you want to know why you are so 'bitter' and 'alone' ? Because you alienate people. You're so washed up- so self-absorbed. It's kinda sad just to look at you. And in some ways, I think you ARE dying. And for all this- I think you've even alienated me. It's been real nice, but with you like this I honestly can't take being in ya' presence any more. Wake up, man."

             Race took the last swing of gin before pushing his way through the throng of patrons to the door of the dive. 

              The cynic David Jacobs extinguished his cigarette in the grimy wooden table, ignoring the ashtray. Sure, he was somewhat affected with having lost a friend to his own bleakness, but it wasn't like he had ended anywhere past where he started. 

              A few drinks later, David saw two buxom waitresses throwing him out onto the street. Piss drunk, he vomited in the sewer and started to cry, for a reason that his clouded mind could not comprehend. 

             After pulling himself together and staggering home, humming a familiar tune, David went home and wrote his own obituary.

_The End. _

A/N: If you have any comments or questions or anything at all to say in reaction to this piece, please feel free to e-mail me or post in the reviews section. 

I sincerely thank you for taking your time to read this little thing that has come to me in a random moment of inspiration. 

;P


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